


Talk Less

by NeutralSymmetry



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Assassination attempts, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Undercover Dream, Will Tag as Things Go On, prince AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeutralSymmetry/pseuds/NeutralSymmetry
Summary: Tides are turning between the Kingdom of Manberg and The Badlands.  A revolution is on the horizon, and the only thing stepping between them is an arranged marriage.  The only problem is, one person in that marriage may end up dead if things continue how they are.  That's where Clay comes in.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Talk Less

**Author's Note:**

> A little inspired by The Captive Prince Trilogy, here's my first attempt at a Dreamnotfound fic! It's not my favorite in the fandom, but it was the only one that really fit, unfortunately, so I wanted to keep going on with it!

Clay was 12 when he stood in the crowded, shining room of the Badland’s famous Cardinal Ballroom.

12, and very, very uncomfortable.

His shirt was choking him around the neck, and his torso itched, and overall he was having an absolutely terrible time.

_Come with me to the Claret Ball_ , his mother had urged him. _You might get a job in the palace, Clay._ It had been hours and he hadn’t seen any opportunity spring in front of him, and he had no doubt lost complete sight of his mother by now.

He barely passed a man dressed in garish green robes, talking to a young woman _(too young for the man’s age, Clay thought)_ dressed in fine royal champagne silk. Her hair was an obnoxious red, with embellishments hanging from the curls. She turned to him as he passed with a less than favorable expression, clicking her heels as she moved away from his scurry.

The room is too massive, yet all too suffocating. The red drapes hung threateningly from the tall dark maroon ceiling, and the presence of gold accents didn’t make it any less busy. His Kingdom was never known for being too lavish or extravagant, but even royal ballrooms weren’t protected from the vanity of the other Kingdoms

Defeated, Clay eventually gives up pursuit of finding his mother. She was probably carted off by other nobility of equal status, or was too busy enjoying the main attraction of the ball: the wine that was produced in abundance every year to come, thanks to the optimal soil of the Badlands. King Bad and his spouse, King Skeppy, enjoyed throwing parties to celebrate the harvest every year.

It wasn’t as if Clay was unfamiliar with the process of wine making. His family had been viticulturists for generations; preparing and harvesting the different types of grapes to send off to winemakers in preparation to trade with other Kingdoms. It was their only source of income, and the main source of income for the country, aside from the collection of precious rocky materials.

Clay’s throat tightened, and he started to panic. The room was too big, he was too small, and everything was just a little too much. He was frustrated and it was hard to breathe, but he wouldn’t doubt if that was because of the collar securely choking him around his neck. Despite their position of power, Clay had never attended these kinds of events before, and was donning his late father’s childhood outfit...What he could only guess was an early childhood outfit.

He needed air, and in a panic, quickly made way to the side of the ballroom he knew had a small access to a garden. He had been to the Palace before without the need of a party, with his parents, and discussions over taxes with some of the Royal Bookkeepers. It was a while ago, but the memory was all he was clinging to now.

He found the ornate door decorated in gold accents and thick glass, and pushed into the crisp and cool air. It was a lot less suffocating, and brought a wave of calm over the young boy. He can breathe, at least.

He walked a few meters ahead to the entrance of the garden where his memory demanded he go, and eyed the pretty little fountain bubbling not too far ahead. During the night it was more calm, more serene, and the fixture looked surprisingly overgrown for the ostentatious ballroom busying on the other side of the door.

Clay examined the garden’s landscape, and it’s many features. There were many different kinds of flowers, but particularly ones that he himself didn’t recognize from home. They seemed imported from other places, and they interested him greatly. But the one that stuck out the most was one prim and bright white flower in the middle of a barren plot.

_It must be a survivor of some kind of disease,_ Clay thought. He knew about certain plants being more resistant to disease than others. It helped to be the son of viticulturists, but he focused more on harvesting the grapes themselves. He wasn’t too much into the logic of it all.

He took a step closer to examine the plant, and a figure out of the corner of his eye startled him. A relaxed figure, sitting back towards the fountain’s seats, knees to his chest.

A boy his age.

Clay’s curiosity got the best of him, and he stepped closer to get a better look at the boy, but immediately regretted imposing. Atop his head were the signature gems and silver crown of the Kingdom of Manberg. By this time, his presence is noted by the noble, and he’s staring.

The noble is now staring, looking up at Clay’s thin, but tall figure.

He immediately turned away, nervous, but knowing that the damage had already been done. He had made an embarrassment of himself, and probably had offended some high up of Manberg, and now he’s going to ask for his name and ban him from his Kingdom for life, and-

  
“Who are you?”

And then he’s swinging his head in a panic to meet the face of the noble again, and he notices more details in the dark. He had short dark hair, a thin face, and smaller eyes. The boy was around his age. He was dressed in a pale blue poet shirt, topped over by a simple black jacket, with white pants and black ornate boots. A dark red sash crossed his body, held in place by silver adornments. Another red sash crossed his side, holding in place a small shortsword sheath.

“Clay Stone, of the Badlands. A-At your service.”

Another awkward pause, and his look shifts to one of disappointment. “I assume my father sent you?”

Clay pales. He recognized the gems and the symbols as a sign of Manberg royalty, but Clay could not remember for the life of him who the nobility of Manberg even were. He didn’t know if they had one ruler, or many, or who has the status of nobility and why. He wished he had paid more attention in the lessons his mother had given him.

After yet another awkward pause, Clay barely manages out the words “Your father, Your Highness?”

The noble shrugged and looked back down simply to stare at the ground. “I guess not.” Clay can tell the noble isn’t very interested in continuing the conversation, and Clay suddenly feels as suffocated as he did inside the ballroom. He’d rather bear the overwhelming crowd than make an embarrassment of himself out here.

“What are you doing out here?” the noble asks after a while of staying idle. “Not many people find interest in the garden at this time of night, I’m sure. Not very exciting while dark.”

Clay marks that he’s still standing awkwardly while the noble from Manberg is still just sitting, and he starts to choke again. Yep. He would definitely prefer the bustling crowd.

“I lost my mother momentarily in the ball, and got overwhelmed. I came here to breathe for a second, but I should probably get back before she gets worried.” Clay awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and started to turn to leave the garden, when he watched the noble below him shift to stand.

“No, wait, please.” Clay turned around to meet eye level to the young noble. He noticed for the first time that his eyes are as dark as his hair, and it gave him such an innocent look. His pale skin was completely smooth and perfect, and was reflecting the moonlight like one big mirror. He truly was….stunning.

“Is….there something I can do for you, Your Highness?”

“You can start by dropping the name, _Your Highness_. George will do just fine,” he said. “Constantly saying Your Highness must be tiring, isn’t it?”

“George? That’s the name of the upcoming Prince of Manberg-” as quickly as he said it, he slapped his hand over his mouth. He had just confessed to the Prince himself that he didn’t know who he was.

“So you didn’t know who I was,” George states. It’s more matter of fact, as if he was confirming something he already knew, rather than asking a question. “Interesting. I’ve never met someone who hadn’t known my name before.”

Clay was dead. Dead meat. He knew his name now, it was only a second before he was banned for life-

“I mean, I know who you are!” he said, almost too defensively. “I just...didn’t have a name to put to a face. My sincerest apologies.”

“Stop acting so formal about it. You’re my age, aren’t you? Why should you have to refer to me like those who refer to my father?”

That would mean his father was J. Schlatt. The King with the reputation of being unjust, and cruel. Rumors of public executions for show were rampant among his Kingdom's darker social circles. He didn't know too much about Manberg, but the idea of now being in front of the son on Manberg's most violent ruler was something to fear.

Clay had heard that the royals of Manberg were just as ruthless, and all about keeping social hierarchy in place. It was weird that it seemed the Prince of Manberg wasn’t the same about upkeep.

“I suppose you’re right...Y-Your H-”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll cry, you know,” George mustered with a small laugh. “Just George. Please.”

“Ok then...George.”

George laughed to himself, and moved to sit back down in his spot before. “Join me, will you?”

“For wanting me to address you as an equal, you sure do have the sass of a typical Prince.” Clay nervously grinned, hoping to test the waters of this...weird friendship he seemed to have formed.

“Comes naturally, my apologies. I’m sure you know what I mean,” George said so matter of factly.

“Aha...Yep. I definitely totally do,” Clay sputtered, not even trying to hide the fact that he definitely doesn’t have any idea of what George means. He awkwardly and swiftly sat down next to George, who no longer was turning his attention to the dirt. He was off looking in the sky, up at the stars, mentally counting out where everything was.

“...So you aren’t of high nobility?” George seemed surprised.

“I don’t know if you’d even consider us nobility. More like...Pseudo-nobility?” Clay didn’t know how to explain it, even if he wanted to. The Stone’s had power, but by no means did they have a steady source of income. They had a name to themselves, but no power over any other noble family. Not by a landslide. “We’re viticulturists. We run the biggest vineyard in the Badlands.”

“Viticulture...Interesting. You don’t even look old enough to drink,” George retorted with a smirk.

“12 and counting. I’ll be old enough to soon, I think,” Clay responded. “I’ll be 13 in about-”

George held out a hand to stop him. “Let me take a guess. You seem like you’d celebrate your birthday in….October?”

Clay shook his head and chuckled at the Prince's guess. “August. I was born in the middle of August. My parents always joke that I ripen at the same time that the grapes do.”

“That is rather ironic,” George smirked. “Your entire life seems to be tied to grapes.”

“It’s not that I want it that way, or anything. To be honest, I’d rather be working here in the castle. I’d love to serve the King, or even better, serve the royal guard.”

George was silent for a moment, and his gaze dropped from looking at the sky. He turned towards the ground, and stared. “...It’s not all it’s cut out to be, really. I’m the opposite of you, funny enough.”

Clay turned to look at George concerningly, noticing the drop in his tone. It seems almost...solemn. Sad. The sound to match the look he first found the Prince gave when he found him.

“I doubt you know much about politics from other Kingdoms, then, not being too related to the noble families. But we recently had a turn of power where I am. My uncle has taken over the throne.” George’s shoulders dropped as he talked. He seemed to be sinking in on himself as he opened up. “My brother nor I know why. We’re still next in line for the throne, but since the change...Things have been weird.”

“So King Schlatt...isn’t your father?”

“It’s what he’ll have other countries believe, at least. To keep up the appearances. His only son was born out of wedlock. The guy is a real deviant,” George’s voice still held sadness, but anger was starting to rise to the surface. “To be honest, I’m starting to really despise the guy.”

“That’s why you’re out here, then.” As before George did, Clay wasn’t asking a question. He was making a statement.

“He wants me to talk to high nobles and high nobles only. He’d freak if he knew I was talking with you. No offense,” George mustered with a chuckle. He was trying his best to raise the mood again, Clay noted.

“None, taken. I mean, it’s true, I’m not a high noble.”

“I just don’t see why that matters. Why should we have to be put on a pedestal of greatness for something we were born into? It’s not fair to you, it’s not fair to me.” George was back to being angry. Clay wished he could do something to help him.

They sat in silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other's company. The air wasn’t suffocating, or awkward as it was before. In fact, Clay felt relieved.

A few more moments pass when George suddenly stretches and gets to his feet. Clay looked up at him curiously to find a hand outstretched for him to take. The blonde nods and takes his hand, and wobbles to his feet. His shoes were definitely too tight.

“No use in just sitting around, I guess. You can walk, can’t you?” George asks.

“Of course I can. Just not used to these tiny shoes, is all.”

“Trust me. You’ll never get used to the tiny shoes.” For the first time all night, Clay saw George genuinely laugh. It’s not a chuckle, or a giggle. It’s a full laugh. Clay smiled, still holding George’s hand, began to walk them through the garden. 

It’s a lot larger than what Clay remembers. He remembered something small, something bustling; but under the moonlight, the leaves grew quiet and the space becomes bigger. Regardless, under the pale moonlight, it’s as pretty as he remembered it. They’re quiet together, but the silence speaks a thousand words. They were comfortable, and happy.

They passed the flower Clay had admired before. Clay stares at it again. George notices, and clears his throat.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Clay says with wonder

“If you think invasive species are pretty, that is,” George stated. “It looks similar to a real flower, but it’s a weed. You can tell because of the arrow shaped leaves.”

“What’s it’s real flower equivalent, then?”

“Morning Glories. They come in tons of colors, too.”

“...What’s your favorite color Morning Glory?”

“Probably blue.”

* * *

  
  
  


It had been at least an hour since Clay stumbled across George in the garden, and it was an hour than made the party so much more bearable.

“So...if I’m 12, how old are you?” Clay felt more comfortable asking about George now. They seemed to have hit it off, despite the awkward beginnings. 

“I’m going to turn 14 towards the end of the year. When I do, I’ll just be given more princely duties by Uncle Shat.”

Clay used his free hand to cover his mouth and keep his laugh down. George’s hold on his hand tightens as he begins to laugh as well.

“To be honest, George, you’re not at all what I expected of Manberg royalty. I thought you’d be huge and frightening.” Clay hunched his shoulders. “Thank you. I know your family is intimidating, but you seem really kind.”

George stops in his tracks and stares at Clay like he suddenly sprouted a second head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that too much? I’m sure you have other lovely family members, I just meant-”

“You think I’m kind?” George seemed more stunned, than offended. “I’ve never heard that from someone before.”

“Well not just kind. You’re funny, and smart, and…” Clay hesitated for a second. “.....Regal.”

“Now you’re just flattering me, Clay.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!”

“Are too.”

“Are not!”

George let go of Clay’s hand and used it to shove him with a laugh. “Are too!” Clay grinned, seeing that the game is afoot, and shoved George back. They both broke into giggles, and soon enough, end up in a mess on the floor, amused with themselves as they fake wrestle, shouting words of arguments as they go.

Eventually, Clay is able to pin George below him as the prince struggles, still laughing. Admitting defeat, George goes limp and closes his eyes, playing dead. Clay laughed again and rolled off his new friend, and laid with his back against the grassy ground.

They both took a moment to catch their breath. Here Clay was, a borderline commoner, hanging out and playing with a Prince.

George sat up after a minute, holding his stomach with both hands as he begins to chuckle to himself again. The laughter was contagious.

“I’ve...never had as much fun as that. No one’s ever…”

George doesn’t need to say it for Clay to know what he wants to say, and he won’t make him say it either. _No one’s ever treated me like this._ Clay sat up and gives him a bright smile.

George looks over to Clay and smiles, and places his hand on top of Clay’s. Clay easily reciprocated the action, and intertwines their fingers.

Clay was used to having friends. He had plenty back home, and was so thankful to have them. But this was...a new feeling. Something that bordered friendship. He didn’t know what it was, but being around George seemed so easy. Maybe it was his princely aura.

“You want to join the Guard, right?” George broke Clay from his thoughts.

“I do, but I know it’s really hard without previous training.”

In a quick moment, George is at his side, quickly untying the ceremonial ribbon at his waist. It was red, and Clay could tell it was some kind of satin. Strong and sturdy, but pretty.

  
He unhooked the sheathed shortsword around his waist and handed it to Clay. It was a smaller blade, but practical.

“George, no, I can’t accept this-”

“I don’t want it. It brings bad memories, and I can’t even use a sword. It’s just a costume piece, really.”

“A really expensive costume piece!”

Clay had the sheath shoved in his hand. Like the ribbon still tied to it, it was a dark red color, engraved in black accents. It made sense, considering the Manberg crest was black and red.

“As your future King, I tell you to take the damn sword, Clay.” George can’t even manage out the phrase without laughing.

“You’re cute when you try to be stern,” Clay murmured in a wisp.

George opened his mouth to say something, but they’re interrupted by a young woman's voice.

“ _Prince George! Prince George!_ ” The call cut George off mid sentence and he winced.

“That’d be me,” George said, slowly extracting his hand from Clay’s.

They both stood to their feet and helped sweep the dirt off of one another so as to not raise suspicion. They giggled a little more, but ultimately finished rather quickly.

“Clay,” George says, “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“As you wish,” Clay says. He had a grin on his face and courtesies to the Prince of Manberg. “Your Highness.”

George shoved him and rolled his eyes, but he’s smiling.

They both part ways. Clay barely remembers to take the shortsword with him.

When Clay went back inside, a few minutes after the Prince, he finally found his mother, slightly tipsy from conversation of her acquaintances. She scolded him for running off, and even more so for the dirt patch on his trousers. She pulled him into a tight hug, just glad he was alright, and dropped the subject for the evening.

At the end of every Claret Ball, there was a toast for every royal family member present, from both the Badlands and from the few other Kingdoms. There weren’t many in the ball tonight, but what really stuck out to Clay was the nearly identical boy standing next to George, the only difference being the height and slightly darker skin. He guessed the boy was Prince Alex- he had forgotten that he existed during his time with George that night.

His parting with George was the last time he saw him. Even when he tells his mother about their meeting, his mother doesn’t believe him and passes it off as a silly joke, even after presenting the ornate shortsword. Still, Clay wasn’t convinced that George was a dream.

That year, Clay gets accepted into the royal guard as an up and coming prodigy, and George gets news that his father was assassinated. 


End file.
